


Short Change

by BunsterKeaton



Category: Gaia Online, gaia manga, gaiaonline - Fandom
Genre: Blood, F/F, Gen, Im not sure what to warn you about really, Injury, M/M, also extremely mundane things, assassinations, theres dates....and some death?, uh. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16277345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunsterKeaton/pseuds/BunsterKeaton
Summary: Books, Bullets, and Picture Shows.The authoritative principal Mills really wishes his life whirl winds into a romantic novel. But feels he's far too old and menacing to catch the eyes of anyone. But upon entering a bookstore he meets a stranger who makes him both intrigued and flushed as he's unsure how to react to a sudden action of blind kindness is this the path way to a romance like his novels ? Or does something darker lurk beyond? Why is everyone sweating so much?Read and find out in Short Change.A story about money and sweaty men.





	1. Prelude|Opening Credits

   Mills attempted to act normally. He got up and stretched. And asked himself if he should go about his morning like usual. This certainly was his bed. And this certainly was his room. But this certainly wasn’t the way he kept it. And he certainly had not had a sleeping companion for the last three years, especially one that came in late at night covered in blood asking for a place to hide ‘just in case.’ At this time he usually would make himself coffee. Pick up the news outside and then continue with a breakfast he decided the Sunday before. Today he broke his schedule. A shower, to really wake himself up. A breakfast. _For two!._.

 

_Wait._

_You don’t know what he likes._

_You can wait on breakfast._

_You're a very patient man._

   His bouncing knee said otherwise. He needed to do something. But waking him was out of the list of things to do. Mills wanted him to wake up happily.

   Mills wanted him to want to wake up to this.

   Sans the blood... And possible wounds. And the fact that they barely know each other- _well_ \- barely a harsh word. But definitely, didn’t know each other enough to sleep in the same bed. But it was comfortable, almost as if it was right. Or maybe you’re just lonely.

   His knee broke into double time of bounces. Being in a dreamy reverie while housing a potential criminal is not good. But, what can you do?

   Mills leaned across the table and grabbed one of his spare journals, it was a hardcover blue watercolor journal with a gold stripe along the bottom. It was sitting in his designated journal pile when he inevitably gets gifted a ‘office gift’ by someone who should know him better. Usually he gets multiple journals sometimes of the same design.

   “You just seem like the writerly type.” Would usually be said as he looked down a moleskin journal with _‘Dreamers are the real creators’_ scrawled centered in metallic font of the cover. He’d offer a grateful smile and accept the gift as graciously as he can fake it and wondered if he was just better at gifting than his coworkers. At least winter parties had spiked eggnog.

   He couldn’t blame them, journals can be thoughtful and something useful, and at least these gifts he would never feel the need to immediately throw out. Unlike the ‘gifts’ from a…. Well, let’s be blunt, a perverted co-worker he has been petitioning the firing for years. At least.

   So, he has a pile of office gifts that grows through the years. He doesn’t really know what to do with them, usually. But today is an unusual day and he needs something to do. Idle hands and all…

   Opening the blank journal, he drew a timid line with a pen, making sure the ink was running. And Mills began.

   “My name is Mills, I work in the education department as a principal.”

_This is stupid._

  “I’m getting these thoughts down because there’s no-one- “

_Now I sound lonely._

  “I really trust to hold this information. But I need some place to say it. My life has gone, in a manner of speaking. Haywire. And it started about—”

   He looked up at the calendar. It was puppy themed. He flushed wondering what his sleeping guest thought of it. What did the guest even think of him? He continued writing.

 

“One month ago.”


	2. Dime-Novel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mills journeys to an obscure bookstore.  
> Sweat meter 2/20

   Mills didn’t make it a habit to shop at seedier places. But lately his usual haunt (a bookstore with the loveliest café) has been inundated with students scurrying about to find whatever text their English teacher assigned. He didn’t hate kids buying books per-se but he did hate having his image of a punishing principal ruined when he’s caught reading the newest _Alexander the Marquis_ series, which books always have a cover of two people often in some sort of embrace and almost always as often in some sort of undress or clothes ripping. Alexander himself must have the cheapest shirt buttons in the world, despite his status of marquis.

   Mills understood why he would receive judging looks from students and why kids would giggle over that fact. But arguably, the plots are very captivating and the moments of intimacy between Alexander of his rotating cast of romances can often make Mills look away and cover his warm cheeks. There were also other novels ( _Detective Sophia, The Passionate God, The vampires Lust..._ ) and one-off series written by his favorite ring of authors. But the escapism he currently yearned for was within the pages of _Alexander the Marquis_. Yes, Mills wanted an adventure, he wanted to be held protectively at the throws of danger despite him being fully capable of fending for himself. He wanted sunsets and boat rides and he wanted someone else to do the planning for once. He needed a break from his schedule.

   And this was his adventure. Being a dingy bookstore where the books are messily stacked on top of the other. He saw a boat filled with books in the middle of the second floor. The store smelt of cinnamon incense and the clerk’s nicotine. The unbalanced stacking made more prominent that the shelves were neither being properly set up or bolted. The place a safety hazard for all events, including the event of ‘just an average Wednesday.’ The store was worthy of achievement for not tumbling due to the whisper of a breeze.

  Mills navigated the a corridors found a relatively nicer area, there was a visual difference in the floors this section obviously was swept. There was even a camera set up (the camera being in operating condition was debatable). The books were nice, he laid his hand on one and it growled. He didn’t touch the others. A leather hardback that was displayed was dripping a black phlegm like substance. It was time to move on. He squeezed between two shelves and walked along the edge of the third floor till he found one of the many ladders. Climbing back down he watched the doorbell jingle as a hooded man entered the bookstore. He nodded to the clerk and the clerk nodded back. Mills went back to looking around. Despite this store being strange, it had hominess to it he could see himself making this his usual spot, plus a nearby bakery would be a good place to read for the day.  
He found himself in the Mystery section. Or probably mystery? There were a lot of detectives depicted on covers and what he assumed was a Sherlock title. Mills spied through a shelf and saw that the clerk was still busy with the hooded man and the serious demeanor made him-admittedly- too nervous to ask for the latest Alexander novel. He grabbed a nearby book that seemed interesting and opened to the first chapter.

 

 

 

 

> _I gripped the whisky bottle. Too tired to reach for a glass. She was gone. And what did that leave me? Alone all my life? I eyed the pistol, her pistol. She was the greatest sharp shooter. And me? I couldn’t solve a single case. A shameful shortsighter. I needed my partner more than I needed this damn whiskey. But I was too scared. What if she was happier without me? I needed someone. I was worthless alone. I couldn’t solve this case. In this neon-light illuminated town. My heaven of pavement and tar. Towering kingdoms of consumerism and sin. I realized how hollow the angels of Chevrolet sang when she galloped into my office…and into my life. Her name was Pistol whippin’ Penelope. And she could shoot you down as fast as she could break your heart. I was a city girl-city detective- I didn’t know how bad I was till that country hot-shot rode in and blinked her long lashes at me and asked_  
>  _“D’ya need a pardner?”_  
>  _I didn’t know how much I d-_

 

   “Hey.”

   Mills stiffened realizing a figure had suddenly stepped in front of him. The man was a mess of blonde-white curls. He looked tough but tired. His jacket was the first thing Mills really took in, just looking at it felt like he needed to pay a price it was a dark purple with silver buttons that had intricate ‘K’s the jacket flared near the bottom with dual-textured panels marking folds. He was a big guy.

  The blonde man continued having waited to make sure Mills looked up. The man tilted his head and lifted his hand two fingers indicating the front desk. His voice was flat and rough. “He has a rule; no more that fifteen minutes to read for new customers.” The man seemed to be careful not to be in Mills’ personal space but the ‘mystery’ section was tight. Mills leaned his back against a shelf. He often would get angry when interrupted between stories, but this time he felt like a kid caught browsing a banned website.

  “He asked me to tell you that.” His silver eyes weren’t fixed on Mills' rather, they would look over at Mills then look back towards the front desk. Mills was thankful there wasn’t eye contact. They stood there, Mills' eyes traced the scar that contoured the man's face, he knew it was rude to stare but he wasn’t mentally prepared for human interactions outside of transactions. It was quite a mundane moment and forgettable, but the way this man held himself from the subtle rise and fall under jacket to the jacket's details itself felt sharp. Mills’ lips slowly parted but whatever he would say was pushed aside in exchange for a nod.

  The man added in a softer tone. “Previous accidents.” As if apologizing and trying not to blame Mills for the rules in place. Mills worried he made a weird panicked face. The man took one last glance over the principal and turned to leave.

   Walking away the man spoke in a slightly louder volume over his shoulder.

   “It had good movie. It had a television show… That was okay.”  
   Mills tilted his head at the stranger before his eyes darted back to the book. He then closed the book and looked at the cover. An old aged sticker read _‘Soon to be major motion picture!’_  
   “Huh.”

   Mills walked towards the end of one the shelves that connected to the bannister overlooking entrance of the shop. He rested his hand on the cold chopped wood and watched the Hooded man check out. One magazine was on the counter, but the clerk pointed his thumb behind him and walked to the employees back room and returned with a small box filled with books in one arm, holding a slip of paper of in the other hand. Mills could see the clerks mouth move to what seemed like “On Hold.” The fancy-hooded-man welcomed the box the gestured his head bobbed slightly while the clerk began to ring him up. The clerk paused and seemed to scrunch his face up but seemed to have relented to whatever the hooded man asked. He paid in cash and left.

   So the stranger was certainly a reader. And a rich reader, obviously.

   Mills climbed down stairs and walked towards the clerk.

   ”Do you have ' _Alexander the Marquis: Part seven The Pirate’s Bay_ '?”  
   “Yeah, uh, gimme a minute.”  
   The clerk hopped off the stool and walked to a couple boxes near the front counter and rifled through the boxes, tossing a few books aside before pulling out a novel with the tell-tale bare chested cover of Mill’s current goal.

   “This it?”  
   “Yeah, that’s correct.”  
   They walked back to the counter, “You buyin' that too?” Mills looked down and realized the cowboy-noir was still tucked under his arm. He felt too embarrassed to put it back and frankly he wouldn’t know where to place it.  
   “Uh, yea-yes. This too.” Mills slid the novel on the counter.  
   “Chill.” The noise of beeps emitted from the register as the clerk tallied the prices. Mills reached for his wallet. “Nah, man. You know that dude I was chatting with? He gotchu.”  
   “...Got me?”  
   “Yeah, he left some Plat aside in case you wanted anything. Said if you spent above what he left then he’ll cover next time he comes.”  
   “I see- “  
   “I know he’s good for it so yeah.”  
   “Oh.” Mills didn't know anything else to say or do but blush.  
   “Man, you got a bit left over, you should come back and like spend it all I guess? I mean should I give you the rest?”  
   “Uh.”  
   “-mean I guess I’d give a gift card but we don’t have those.”  
   “Uh I, I’ll come back and get other books, I guess?”  
   “Cool. I’ll just write how much you got left.” The clerk wrote on a notepad that was on his lap, Mills couldn’t see how much was being written down but when the pen went to half the page and continued he winced. “Does he come here often.” Mills croaked a bit too sudden and a tad too loud.  
   “Like every three weeks.”

   Mills swallowed and felt a bead of sweat. He’d have three weeks to figure out what he was going to say. And It didn’t feel like enough. He couldn’t accept this amount. He had to thank him and say no. This must have been a mistake. Was there another customer? A more attractive customer? Maybe a friend he meant this for? “Alright. Around this time?”

   “Not really on the dot, but yeah Wednesday or Thursday you’ll find him here at some point.” Now, Mills wanted to see this stranger again but he didn’t want to have a stakeout for the guy. He had plans. Well, not really. But seriously?  
   “Okay,” Mills relaxed his shoulders. And reached for the plastic bag with his two new books. “Have a good one.” He walked out the door hearing the clerk echo back a farewell. Mills felt relatively-exponentially confused but looking into the plastic bag with the red text;

 

 

 

 

> ‘ _Thank You_  
>  _Thank You_  
>  _Thank You_  
>  _Thank You_  
>  **_Thank You_**  
>  _Have a nice Day!_ ’

   He saw the respite of his day the novel to melt away all the drama and stressors of looking after high schoolers with super powers with a giddiness bubbling up inside him he started his walk to the cute bakery he saw coming to the store.

   The pitter patter of feet on sidewalk and light rain made Mills excited to read, a nice pastry a warm coffee. The white noise of the surrounding café. What a wonderful time he’ll have all to himself. Sure, the day was arguably strange, the nameless ma-. Wait. Mills stopped dead, eyes wide. “..his name.” He was right in front of the bakery now, the bookstore being one block over. “His name…” He uttered in rising octaves, Mills spun around and back peddled quickly to the bookstore clerk.

   The bookstore clerk looked down as his shirt lifting the rectangular name tag and studied it. It was aged and basically blank, he honestly put the thing on out of common courtesy and habit. He was okay with bein-Is that thunder or someone being chased by the police?  
    ** _Bah-dmp_**  
   The door slammed open before the bell reacted.  
   “Oh he-"  
   “His name.” Mills demanded huffing.  
   “Me? It's St-"  
   "N-no. The uh. The m-"  
   "Oh! uh. Iunno.” A shrug.  
   “What do you mean you don’t know?”  
   “I think he went by like, _Omar_? Usually just call him ‘man’ or ‘dude’.”  
   A firm slanted line took the place of Mills mouth. “Okay.. Okay!” Mills breathed out. Well it was something. “Okay.” His tone lifted this time, slightly hopeful.  
   The clerk chuckled at him. Mills felt uncomfortable.  
   “…Yeah, have a good day.”  
   “You too, man.”

   Mills walked back to the bakery. So, the clerk wasn’t any help but he wouldn’t have to worry about that for three weeks. But he did wonder about this _Omar_ why would man with refined tastes -if his jacket was anything to go by- shop there. The stores sign was so broken that the only thing remains of the places name was a flickering neon purple ‘B’. Of course, his hair and his demeanor were tired or even unkempt, Mills mused watching the streetlights green walking man flicker and indicate his turn to cross the street. Mills walked with the crowd looking over everyone with him with vague hopes of seeing his anonymous gifter. He did not.  
Mills found a comfortable seat in the bakery, he decided to order a tiramisu cake and a chocolate croissant and feeling on a roll of treating himself he decided to order the tea where the flowers bloom in the pot. He felt slightly fancy and (gasp) decadent even, it’s important to spoil yourself after all.

   Mills flipped open his romance novel, which the prior left off on a such a cliffhanger! Alexander was forced to choose to return to the city with his childhood sweetheart or travel across the sea to solve the mystery of his old boarding school flame, what he didn’t know was there was another player following his every move with maybe even malicious intent on the mind.

 

 

 

 

> _The Marquis looked over Tiffant;_  
>  _“Darling,” The waves crashed against the pier the couple stood at as the sunset refracted against his sweat, he glimmered seductively as he held her gaze. “With a heavy heart I must- “_  
>  _Tiffant Gasped. “Don’t say it-oh- Alex, my heart can’t bare it.” Tiffant reached towards his shirt, ripped open because of the sword fight that happened minutes ago. ( If you haven’t read Alexander the Marquis: Part 6 the Swords of Fate please do before continuing) “Alex, beloved.” She breathlessly breathed out, gasping._  
>  _“Oh Tiffant, dearly darling.” Alexander held Tiffant’s soft gloved hands and looked into her deep eyes. He shined against the sun. The waves swelled and crashed like an orchestra playing just for them. His muscles glistened his lips tasted of salt, he wondered what Tiffants tasted-were they still tasting of sweet naivety and dreams? Or has this hardened her?_  
>  _Alex, please, my love, you are injured. Return home with me. Remember our carved names in the trees.” She whispered her breath, bated. “Remember, our promise?”_

 

   It continued like this, Mills wondered if Tiffant was an asthmatic. Was she like that in the previous book- _unless…. Oh no…. Oh No!_ He read on dreading the worst for Tiffant, and his fears were confirmed.

 

 

 

 

> _“Alexander, my lovely darling it seems during the previous sword fight ( Alexander the Marquis: Part 6 the Swords of Fate) I was punctured.”_  
>  _Alexander stepped back and leaned against his desk. How did Alexander miss the signs? He should have returned back to the city with her, living the humble life of a rich marquis. Regaining himself Alexander read on._  
>  _“Not fatally, but with a poisoned tip!” The fluctuation of relief and pain swelled the strong man he shook his head in disbelief, his long locks catching the candlelight. “But, where you are going may have the antidote, lover… Please if you see this plant collect it and return to me. The doctor says I have a definite amount of time left. I don’t know how long.” Overwhelmed with emotions, Alexander ripped open his shirt. It was a good thing he decided to go on the boat, but now he has two missions, saving Benise and saving Tiffant. Both women he loved ever so much earnestly._  
>  _“Lexxy?” Called out a sultry voice, it was Vanile. She was beautiful and Alexander was captivated. She walked to him and brushed his long shiny locks._  
>  _“Lexxy? What happened to your shirt?”_

 

    Mills read through the first few chapters with fervor-only pausing to place the book down and look around worried he may have caused a scene for being too excited; whether that was his knee bouncing too hard that it made tables shake, or he gasped a too loud, or was so caught up he had accidentally started reading aloud or mumbling the last words in sentence. Mills learned of his quirks and had tried to make himself socially acceptable.

   It did impede on his excitement and fun, interrupting his train of thought to make sure he didn’t cause a scene. He could go to his place a read there, but the atmosphere would be missing, the fresh food and fancy teas. Feeling like he was part of something, a living breathing society.

    Restless leg syndrome was the one habit he allowed the most to show, it was either live with a bouncing knee or be asked why he waved-or flapped- his arms when his emotions became to manic which he didn’t like explaining so the bouncing left knee won the day.

   It was amongst the throws a hard bounce the plastic bag containing the other book fell against his leg and the mysterious stranger fell back into his mind.  
Dog earring the page of Alexander he gently lifted the book that -if were a living being-would embody a lesbian Johnny Cash.  
   The sleeves were aged in a manner of speaking rips around the folds Mills couldn't figure if it was a new book but greatly and often misplaced or a used book but never used to read.  
_'The Grit of City and Sand'_

   The text said all in white the rest of the book black save for puddles of blood with a white outline of an alleyway where the silhouette of two figures stood in the distance.  
 

  Fingers traced over the red sticker, maybe he should look up the movie he could vaguely recall previews for it at some point, but of his memories were correct then it would have been playing while he was going through a divorce.  
Even though it wasn’t dramatic or venomous there is still a certain pain you feel when a companion you had for years turns to you and says “I don't think I love you.” it was not out of nowhere, of course it happened over time. The silences together weren't comfortable, even her habits clashed with his. They tried to make it work and he admittedly still did miss her-or did he miss having someone to miss? Was the idea of having a romantic relationship something Mills fancied so much he dedicated himself to the idea more than the person?

   He hadn't thought about the divorce for a while, well hard at least.  
In the end she realized she was a lesbian, they were close basically best friends and she felt if anyone she would love it'd be him. And she did still love him in a word, they were still best friends she would be the person he'd first call to destress and chat. But she now had a family two kids and a doting wife, she found herself more and more busy. And he found himself aging bachelor.

   He had love of family and friends and has a good life. Dating apps felt superficial he always wanted to tumble into love. Meet someone unexpected--...  
No, you cannot have feelings for a stranger you’re not sure the name of. You can’t expect romance out of nowhere! This is stupid. And plots-story plots- they would definitely not happen to you.

   Mills hands pressed along the edge of the book, the pages slowly slipping into gravity. He watched the pages cascade back into place, chin in the palm of his hand fingers pressed against his scar, elbow on the table.  
Mills knew romantic throws weren’t in the cards for him, but it was okay to imagine now and then. Something like this, a stranger covering the pay. Then they bump into each other again the stranger Is so suave and so alluring. An- _this is weird_.  
Surely whatever happened back there was a mistake, _Omar_ must have meant that for someone else.

   Mills will make sure to fix this whole conundrum as soon as possible. He’ll thank the guy and apologize and figure out what really happened.

    _He was handsome._ You think.  
    _You can figure out what you want to say in three weeks, of course._  
_Even get to know him, maybe._  
_You're fairly certain it was a mistake anyways. It had to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two someday. this is stupid.


	3. Penny-Dreadful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhivago does a favor for his friend.
> 
> Sweat meter: 11/20

   You're an idiot.

  
   You threw down an amount, you don't even remember how much? Half your wallet. You threw down half your wallet.

  
   Because you saw a handsome man. No name, no number, no promise of conversation. Well, what would you talk about? How stupid you look picking up your bosses’ newest books? How does she read through all of these- _wait_ \- that’s not the point?. You saw a cute man while doing lackey work! And you didn’t know what to do! So, you said,

  
   “also, I’ll pay for his books.” pointing your chin over your shoulder.

  
   “Chill. So, like are you gonna wait till like, he brings his shit here or should I call him over? I mean like he has indicated buying anything. -” and you panicked.

  
   Threw down half your wallet and gruffed out “…probably’ll cover it.”

  
   Which got a “cool.” from the bookstore owner whose name tag always remains obscured.  
“See ya later dude.” A two-finger salute.

  
   “hn.”

  
   And you walked out well. You did leave and turned into bats and pulled yourself on a roof and paced. A circular stride rethinking how it should have gone. Maybe you should have waited?

  
   “Hey, I’ve got you covered.” Zhivago mouthed and articulated. “Hey. I'll pay for that.”  
_no that sounds too demanding. Oof._

   Zhivago shook off his self-doubt and looked to the bookstore. Zhivago mentally called it the ‘B’ due to its broken sign only having one letter remaining. It had a website with a full name but Zhivago only bothered to learn its address, he doubts the shop keep even remembers its name.

  
   This has been a usual place for Zhivago to visit, the stores in the area weren’t keen on documentation and the district had an unspoken understanding of ‘don’t ask don’t tell ‘ It wasn't Dref Dur where everything in some way was ill gains but there seemed to be an understanding that even unsavory characters needed a place to buy necessities without feeling judged. And these shops filled that need.  
In turn the unsavory characters didn’t target the area, because hey you wouldn’t want to piss off the bloke who supplies your toilet paper.  
If there was a market there was always someone willing to supply it.

  
   That's how Zhivago got by too. Dirty jobs, unsavory needs fulfilled the world keeps turning.  
Multiple safe houses have more animal like friends than people. No traceable family. World keeps turning.  
   Except that it did stop for him.  
   The Day the Earth Stood Still  
   But it wasn't a sci-fi movie.   
   Or the intervention of a god.  
   Or some superhero.  
   It was a man.

  
   Old, graying. Ugly.  
   Who, despite all odds bested him. Zhivago has tangoed with death multiple times. But his impulsively suicidal tendencies came second to one thing he held tightly onto for a long time.

   His pride.

    Humility hit him harder than Franco’s impact on the earth.

    That's something that is harder to recover from. Especially when your personality depended on your ego. But it did make him realize somethings…

   Zhivago was never a romantic man. Not that he hated romance, even he found himself wrapped in a soap opera or drama once or twice. But he never really felt it was a role he was meant to play. He knew he was attractive enough to be eye catching and he's experienced a one-night stand or two. But he never really felt the need to form relationships with people. The relationships he did form felt like happenstance and he subconsciously convinced himself unimportant enough to slip from whatever lives he had intervened.

   But after the event in the chapel it made him wonder. If no one really knew him, who would really miss him.

  
    He never realized how much you need a friend until then. Cordell was a godsend of a friend. Of course, he didn't know how to articulate it outside of terrible jokes and feeling paranoid over her safety. But she understood or seemed like she understood. He wasn't a man who understood affection but she knew how to be on his level, a language between them.  
That’s when it clicked for Zhivago how much relationships really motivate you to be alive sometimes. Especially after you lose your god damned arm and will to live.

  
    And with Cordell came bonding with Ambrosia who also was very tongue-in-cheek with her humor. They bonded over memories of working for Vladimir and the ‘ _not-so-good-ole-days_ ’ and Zhivago slowly found himself in a circle of friends, a found family in a word. And it made him feel warm and uncomfortable. And good. And afraid.

   Sometimes he wondered if he should flee from this. With no other reason but the whisper that this is not something he deserves.

   The only reason he hasn’t run was because he really had nowhere else to go.  
It wasn’t ‘trapped’ but it was blind. Navigating terrain, he had disassociated from for so long it almost feels fake. Fake and undeserved.  
    _Wait what is this? Some emotional bullshit?_

_Cut that edgy crap you’re the world best god-damn hitman._

_You’ve killed gods and monoliths of men._

_You’ve got up from all kinds of damage._

_You can take anything._

_And also, need to remember your mom’s birthday is coming up._

   Zhivago shook his head. Too many thoughts. All branching everywhere.

* * *

  
   Zhivago didn’t visit the _B_ on behest of Cordell. It was in all honesty, a dead drop point. Multiple contacts, he’d be sent a book title or magazine and he’d find it at the B. Cordell has yet to fully voice her opinion on him taking other field jobs, but the both know.  
She probably doesn’t want him to. The current assignments Cordell allows to come his way is basic blackmailing or even just people watching. Zhivago remembered how his lip twitched and how much his face must have obviously voiced his disdain.

   “You need to start out slow, get reacquainted.”

   “I know my job, I know what I can do.” He said.

   “You have to know how much you can do now. How you need to re-adjust.” Cordell reasoned.

   Zhivago felt it fingers shuffle in his fist. Cordell was a reasonable Don, she didn’t take shit but she knew the full capabilities and shortcomings of everyone in the family.

But even so, Zhivago knew better than that.

   Zhivago should be out there, making a killing.  
He chuckled at that. It was funny.

   Still, he withheld from what one could consider ‘harder’ jobs. His contacts respected that fact. But still when Cordell caught on-or when Zhivago assumes she caught on- he couldn’t help but perspire.

   “And, where do you think you’re going?” Cordell lifted her head from the desk.

   “Out. Walk.”

   “To where?”

   “Bookstore.”

   Cordell raised an eyebrow. “…You read?” Ambrosia choked on her own laugh. Zhivago made a face at Ambrosia that resembled an Oni mask.

   “You were the one that suggested I try new things.” Zhivago retaliated.

   “Yeah but we don’t want you to do something that’d make you pop a vessel.” Ambrosia pressed her hand against her cheek.

   “I’ll _get babies first_.” He waved turning towards the door.

   Once he was out he wiped is forehead. Cordell allowed people to operate outside of the family so long as they don’t get in the way of the Kuro’s current goals or spread information. It wasn’t necessarily lying, either. But he still felt some sort of guilt about it.

   As time went on he even took the Don and her constant companion to the store, “Nifty.” Ambrosia sated through lower eyelids and she rubbed the dust between her fingers when she touched a book jacket.  
Cordell didn’t give any remarks but she did take a card. Leaving the store Cordell commented something about how it was good for the Kuro’s image to support local businesses. And she’ll keep the place in mind.

   And in mind she did.

   And now Zhivago has too bring back a box of books nearly every day.  
No. That’s overdramatic. Still, ‘Right hand man’ and ‘High Ranking Kuro’ is a box of bull-shit. Yes, Zhivago was part of the discussion of Kuro plans and any important information but he still had to do this crap. Not to mention the paperwork.  
   At least he could take outside jobs. At least he had something to outside the mundanities of a glamorized desk job. At least he had a social circle now.  
   His drops usually were the same. A magazine with outlandish claims;  
_‘MY YETI HUSBAND IS ACTUALLY AND ALIEN!’_  
Or  
_‘I GAVE BIRTH TO MYSELF?!’_  
   With obviously photoshopped imagery or a blurry picture. The editing always felt as loud as the block text the used. The magazine was usually hidden behind a nicer version, the drop bares slight water damage. People needed gone, blackmail, or sometimes a need to flex muscle put someone back in their place. Despite Edmund threat repercussions have yet to happen so he continued like this.

   And he threatened.  
   And he killed.  
   And he was cold.  
   He was ruthless.  
   He was Zhivago the vampire the world feared.  
   He was going to be back on top.

   Sure, there were moments where he may have stumbled. But what’s a good story without a few mistakes now and again? The point is he got up, and the others? Oh boy, the shake of the 8-ball tells us they did not.  
And that’s how it was. Until, until this Wednesday evening.

   “Hey man can you tell that guy back there bout the reading rainbow rule?”

  
   “the...” The store clerk pointed at a sign. Zhivago lifted his palm towards the clerk, eyebrows knitted together. He could do it himself…  
A slow blink and he dropped his hand and climbed towards the pseudo-mystery aisle.

   There was certain air of comfort about the guy. His mouth would part ever so slightly, upon closer inspection Zhivago saw that his eyes would pause and then start scanning from left to right again. It looked like a typewriter reaching the very end and being pushed back-but less obtrusive and loud, self-contained in in a bubble away from the world. Trailing along the tattoo that peaked outside the man’s shirt. Lip scar. It was obvious why a tough guy would be interested in crime drama genre.

   Zhivago shifted his weight, daring not to step closer and looked down to the right-hand corner. Opened mouth. Leaned forward. Exhale. Close mouth.

   His fang pressed at his lip.  
_You kill for a living, you can fulfill this simple request._

  
   But he wasn’t really mentally prepared to talk to someone new. Sometimes he had days where simply speaking felt like a battery draining. On others he felt like he was just emulating basic interactions, like a foreign robot puppeting his flesh and badly faking what he should do.

    Today wasn’t the extremes of those two options, but still, because he didn’t intend on this it feels off.  
But now, he had been standing here for a good three minutes and if the bookworm looks up this will be awkward.  
So he had to say something.

   His lip twitched. He knew what he was going to say.

   “Hey.”

_Oh wow._

_Those are._

_Really blue eyes._

   He looked away towards the front of the store. Zhivago went through the motions. He just needed to say what he needed to.   
He couldn’t meet his eyes. Those had got to be contacts. Zhivago hoped the curls hid the sweat caressing his face. Every time he caught details of the man he tensed his cheek prickled. The blue of his tattoo. The steady indicator of breath. The way his hands held the book. He just wasn’t prepared to talk to someone today. It’s normal nerves.

_Say something._

  _Be interesting._

_Why would you need to be interesting to this stranger?_

_You are walking away what are you doing._

   Zhivago said something over his shoulder. He hoped he didn’t scream it. He nearly walked off the ledge missing the cue to start stepping down the ladder.

_Great now you definitely look like an idiot._

   And then he checked out and left. And he thanked god that he would never have to deal with whatever that was again.  
Although, if he was more prepared to talk to the guy he wouldn’t completely avoid it. He seemed like he’d be interesting to talk to.  
Zhivago looked down the roof and saw the man leave the B.

   He could try to talk to him now.

   ...No wait that’d be weird.

   It’s over now, best move on.Grabbed his magazine;

_‘MY CAT IS THE GOD OF PLUTO, AND HATES GISNEY FOR ASSOCIATING IT WITH DOGS?’_

   Third page was obviously newly stapled in. a paragraph titled; ‘ _Moose? Anonomoose?’_ had what he needed.

>   
>  _‘Not many know this fact, but these plucky cousins of the deer, are dearly known for hacking cell phones. That’s right, at 7:30 P.M. when cops stop patrolling the Aekea streets you may see these hooved account hoppers happily hacking! Recently Thomas Garren who lives on 7886 Trallop St was a victim of these antlered anonymous attacks! Recently he had made himself prominent been asking a lot of questions regard robotic rights within his community but with no family or known friends his face, which is pasty and horned. May not be missed if he disappeared._  
>  _The moose tend to leave around 9:00 P.M. because a street cleaning crew arrive by then, they also are willing to clean up your house if you leave a red cap on the mailbox! Wow. Anyways moose are mighty menaces[ …]’_

   Zhivago grinned. It’s been a while since he was put up against a tiefling. The publication date was tomorrow, telling him when to act. Today he had to drop off the books and resume his desk work as right hand. Tomorrow will be a fun day.

   His eyes peered back over to the store and he thought of one of Ambrosia's taunts.  
"Here." She dropped his phone back in his lap. It was his current burner. He hated touch screens but he was gonna throw it out soon anyways.

   "How did you get my," He sighed, "What did you do?"  
   Ambrosia's fangs bore a shit eating grin.  
   "What did you do?"  
   "Look."  
 A suspicious glance over behind his sunglasses before swiping his phone open. The app smack dab in the main screen.  
   "...What is this."

   "Dating app." Stated coyly.  
  
   "You. Downloaded a dating app. On a burner phone."  
  
   "Your profile is filled, you're welcome." Se knew what she was doing.  
  
   Zhivago sucked in his cheeks. " I don't need to be dating."  
  
   "Come on, just for a double date?"  
  
    "Ah ! Yes!" Zhivago theatrically threw up his hand. "Yes! I will take some stranger out on a date with a mafia don and countess with a stacked death count."  
  
Ambrosia rolled her eyes. " Oh don't be that way."

    "She's right-"

   "You're saying that because you like her." Zhivago snapped at Cordell who strolled into the library. She stepped toward Ambrosia and put her hand on Ambrosia's shoulder before holding out her other hand for his phone. Zhivago shoved it over. "Gonna have to destroy the thing..."  
   " I think you need someone."  
Half of his lip twitched upward. The only reason she was even recommending this was because she and Ambrosia are sooo in love. He's seen this happen in shows before. The immediate need to put everyone you care about on dates because relationships are great. It'll pass. He doesn't need a partner. 

   “You're old you need someone to feed you plasma bags because you can't take care of yourself.” 

   "I'll pack my bags for the nursing home tonight." Zhivago's smoothly retaliated.  
  
   Then his eyes widened in horror.  
  
   Cordell was swiping at the phone. "Oh, that ones cute. Connect with him." Ambrosia said.

   "You're being immature." Zhivago jumped.

   "Oh..Ohh that one too." Ambrosia pointed at the screen.

   "You're a leader of a criminal family." Zhivago pleaded. "You have the ability to cause civil wars and undermine the government."  
  
   "Hey hot stud. Are you looking to party tonight?" Cordell murmured typing vehemently at the phone.

   "Add a lot of emojis."

   "No!"

   "Yes."

Zhivago didn't buy smartphones as burners after that.  
But maybe he shouldn't have been so stark about the concept.   
Maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what kinda idiot wears sunglasses inside


	4. Another day, Another Dollar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mills has an long work day, but in the end everything is okay!  
> Sweat meter: It's a highschool dude/20

   Wake up, tap the button on the radio alarm.

  Morning stretches.

  Turn on coffee pot.

  Get the news.

  It’s time for breakfast.

   It was simple today, a variation of ‘eggs in a basket’ but instead of toast he baked a bell-pepper, added thin layer of gouda cheese and spinach and chives. He ate in the idle quiet, the sound of fork hitting the plate breaking the silence inside, people starting their own mornings outside. He chewed slowly.

  Maybe he should make his house an bed and breakfast? He liked to pride himself on how he cooked, whenever friends stayed over they applauded him. But he didn’t really like the concept of strangers going through his stuff. But his house has been starting to feel too big, maybe he should see if family wanted to visit.  
He could downsize. But that felt like a lot of effort and… like he’d be giving up.  
This house was the perfect size for sharing. Two people growing and living together. So, if he downsized, that means he had given up on sharing.

  Mills unfurled the news and sipped at his mug. He often adds vanilla or caramel syrup.  
Perhaps he would invite a friend over, catch up spend some quality time. Mini-vacation.  
  
There is a steady increase in people pirating pets. Which stitched Mills; eyebrows together. Like, downloading pets? The article explained that they download the pet’s personalities into a computer, which made more sense. The company behind it had a big title ‘ _Live Forever as You are Now_ ’ or something. Mills felt the results are probably dubious at best.

   Locally, the farmers market was making a big turnout. Mills liked that, he loved buying fresh ingredients. It has become something of a monthly fair now, people selling their art and handmade items; some shop owners are even allowing their stores to be used for mini market spaces. Mills often tried to make sure he could visit the market but last month was trouble. This month, he will for sure.  
There was a think piece about how ‘demon summoning’ should be considered a child’s rebel phase and be encouraged. _‘Not in my damn school._ ’ Mills thought, knowing that some parent or young teacher will probably tell him all about this craze later. He skipped past it.

  Other superfood crazes, fashion crazes (he already had a set style, so no thank you.), sports news…

 

 

 

> _‘Are Youths Returning to Gang Violence?’_

   Now, that article caught his eye. The title of course was far more dramatic than the actual article. But that did not stop him from touching a very aged scar on his lip. The article in question was condemning children from getting in young trouble together, and yes, as acting principal he has to too. But outside school making a little trouble in abandoned places (so long as it’s safe) was…harmless. In fact, he would argue to the article that couldn’t hear him that stopping kids from having that fun would make them more likely to join troubling groups like mafias or gangs or even yakuza.  
Just as an example.

  Sure, kids need direction, but stopping them from finding their direction. Might, let’s say, make them pack up and leave and get into as much trouble as possible. And give him a reputation. And get him hurt.  
At least the kid would come home and appreciate taking things slow.

  If things like that had happened. As this, was a made-up example.  
An example presented to argue text that couldn’t hear his thoughts.

  Moving forward he skipped past the ‘magic users tips’ section and got to the pseudo-magic part.

 

 

 

> _‘Today’s Horoscopes;_  
>  _**Aries** : Today you are feeling motivated! You need to remember other projects before focusing completely on one. Avoid anyone selling Lusty Scoundrel_  
>  _**Taurus** : That funny feeling in your stomach isn’t nerves! You have a tapeworm. Congrats! Go see a doctor._
> 
> _**Gemini** : Pay close attention today at work. Your path to promotion is today! Be self-assured!_
> 
> _**Cancer** : Now you’ve done it. I am so mad at you. You come back here, you need to apologize. Right this instant!_
> 
> _**Leo** : Today is the day you will put aside all the work you’ve been neglecting! Remember finishing smaller tasks make harder tasks easier. Stay focused! ‘_

   Mills wasn’t necessarily a Zodiac man, but he decided to peak at his nonetheless.

 

 

 

> _You’ve been looking forward too long, you need to look in other directions. It’s okay to look back. And you need to look both ways. Especially when you cross the street. Watch out!_

  Yeah, that’s what he expected. Vague and applicable to anyone. The usual.

  He looked over the funnies section (he liked the one with deadpanned animals) before moving on with his day.  
Rinsed off the dishes in the sink, put them in the washer and turned on the cycle. Walked to his puppy-themed calendar, circled the date of Barton’s Farmers Market capped his pen that hung on a string tied to the nail holding the calendar up.  
Pause, uncapped the marker and circled a Wednesday and Thursday coming in three weeks. Then headed toward his bathroom.  
Turned on the shower and gave it a couple minutes to warm up. He thought back to his idea of inviting someone over for a week or two. Problem was that his friends were more or less acquaintances, or co-workers.

  Teeth brushed, flossed, and mouth washed gargled. In the time this was done, mist would tell Mills the shower was properly warmed.

  Well... There were some ‘friends’ (or really, one he knows for certain isn’t dead) that he could probably invite over and it wouldn’t feel weird but…

 The rungs of the tubs curtain scraped across it pole as he pulled it shut.

  Mills has been principal of the St. Willow Highschool in Barton for years. Briefly he took over Champion Halls when their Principal went missing, but his school... is nice, not super powers outside of what you regularly expect, and there’s no intense rivalries that would bring a migraine of pranking.  
But there was Frederika.

  He frowned. Rubbing the rag against the back of his neck.

  Mills did everything to get her fired except a hitman, but who could blame him? It’s not likely he’d ever bump into one. The superintendent didn't trust his educated opinion enough to get Fredrika fired.

  He had to ask himself, was he being mean?  
  They were friends.  
  They spent summers together growing up.

  He scrubbed his head with chamomile shampoo.

  They were in similar predicaments; he having a Japanese-Central household she German-Central

  What went wrong?

  What happened to his childhood friends.

  He turned off the shower.

  The problem was Mills had tried talking to her, suggested meetings. She didn’t seem to listen or even feign interest. He wanted her to get help or at least stop being that way in a school system. Maybe he should try again, this time reconnect. Maybe even call up Nicolae…

  Mills wondered what he’s been up to.

  Probably trouble.

  “Growing apart is natural.” Mills muttered rubbing the towel against his wet hair.

  But if he were to invite friends to bond or catch up. They would be the ones that it would make sense to let them spend the night out of nowhere. So, he really had no one then. Maybe he needs to work on his relationships more. Finding himself dried off He stepped over the tub.

  After wiping down the mirror he hung the towel onto the towel bar. Pressing his palms against the porcelain sink he looked over his face. Kinda of scruffy but not really worth a shave. Turning on the sink handle with the red tab he squeezed a tube of cleanser in his palm. The product had sleek black packaging with neon blue text cutting across it. Promising clear soft skin.  
Mills had lived in Barton long enough to know that blindly trusting pretty art on packaging would more than likely cause terrible and horrifying transformations, possessions, or possible balding.  
Its not like he spends his days researching new products before incorporating them into his routines.  
But he does spend evenings.  
After he properly cleansed he patted his cheeks with, moisturizer, then astringent and then finally cologne (just a hint). Gel, combed hair down.

  He double checked the floors to see if he let any water pool up anywhere, satisfied he crossed the hall between the bathroom and the master bedroom.

  Today his shirt was a deep blue with the folds of the collar and the pocket lining bearing the colors and a pattern he deeply adored. Dark pants, socks, loafers, Jacket, lunch, phone, sunglasses, wallet, keys. His mental checklist fulfilled he was ready to start the day.

  …

  He picked up his two new novels.

  Maybe he would have time at work today.

  Mills wasn’t really a car guy. If he saw a cool car he would comment “Oh, that’s a cool car.” But he couldn’t see himself going all out for a car. He preferred home decoration. That was more ideal. But, there were trinkets and details in his station wagon that made it his. The steering wheel had a snug cover. The dangling mochi with a cute face next to the scented cardboard trees hung under the mirror. His dashboard had a mounted seashell with googly eyes. Inside the car's center console were CDs and audio books. In the trunk were reusable shopping bags. It wasn’t much but it was his.  
He pulled out of the driveway. It was time to start his work day.

  As he walked into the administrative office of the high school, Mojisola Williams looked up at him pulling the schools phone from her ear and placing it away from her mouth.

  “It’s Heidi Leela, she heard that demon possession is healthy and wants it incorporated in the curriculum.”

Mills closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. He can feel his palm perspire out of pure frustration already.

  “Please remind miss Leela that the last known possession destroyed half of Durem. And destruction of school property as a result of possession would have to be paid from the families of the student.”

  Mojisola, secretary administrator nodded with her customer care smile. He knew that wasn’t a good answer for Heidi. She knew it wouldn’t be a good answer. He didn’t want to say the next words, but he had to.

  “If she is not satisfied with that answer, please redirect her call to my offices and we can discuss this.”

  Mojisola gave a genuine smile then. And he continued past the front desk, past the discipline office, past the counselor’s offices. The door had ‘Principal’ scrawled on the glass, he made this office his home, or home enough to feel comfortable.  
Placing the bag and books on his desk Mills took a cursory glance around his office. His certifications nicely framed, family photos. A Christmas card from his ex. A couple scenic photos he took himself on vacation three years ago. Had it really been three years since he took a break? Maybe this is why he’s been feeling so …so restless. He needs a real break. He lifted one photo it was a beach side sunset, taken right as the waves broke against the rocky cliff, drops and water splaying in the air. It had taken him all day to fully understand the camera.

  He probably would need to relearn it’s mechanics. It’s been a-

_BBBRR-BBBRR_

  The phone in his office rang out.

  Right.

  Replacing the photo he picked up his phone and slowly sat into his chair.

“Hello,- yes, Mojisola had informed me of your interests.  
Yes, I had seen the article—  
But please try to understand the funding and insurance can only cover so much- well if the facts are found to be true then the inclusion woul-  
…  
I see.  
The superintendent’s office number is listed on the school’s website. I cannot guarantee she is in."

  He sighed.

  The voice on the other side of the phone grew indigent.

  “Yes, I will see you at the meeting Mrs. Leela.”

  The phone clicked back into place. He leaned into his hands.

  This was as bad as the planking epidemic.

  It was time to move on, see what plans ASB had, the dates of field trips and dances.

  Usually he was stuck chaperoning the winter dance, because everyone wants to be flying away to visit family those two weeks before the holidays. But he on other dances he would stay for the beginning and then make himself scarce. He did have to stick around during prom, for some reason they decided the principal announce prom queen and king. He’d think the ASB president would like that honor.

  Taking his phone out he opened a radio station app and tuned into something for easy listening and got to work on the paper work.  
It had been a good half hour before he heard bickering emanating outside his door. Setting down his pen, he rose grabbing a comically oversized fan.

  The arguing echoed down the hall originating from the front desk.

  “A vape pen is not allowed on school premises.”

  “I wasn’t using it!”

  “You were.”

  “I wasn’t using it _to vape_!”

  “We do not allow things like this to be in students possession, especially if they are under eighteen.”

  Mills silently watched the tween follow a faculty member to the disciplinary office, relieved that he didn’t need to intervene.

  “Who’s selling that to kids.” He asked rhetorically.

  “Beats me.” Mojisola answered opening up her lunch. “Did you see the field trip requests for the biology 1-a classes? Visiting the local gardens?”

  “Yes, I think a miniature fundraise can help cover the costs because-“

  “the football team is requesting new uniforms.”

  “Right.”

  Then the door to the main office clicked open and closed. Mills looked up no one had entered. Footsteps approached the desk.

  “EX-cuse me.” A voice chirped behind the desk. Mojisola and Mills looked around the room before closing in on the desk and looking over the edge.

  A young boy with short brown hair looked up at both of them. He looked very focused.

  “I’m sorry I did not sign in. I couldn’t reach it,” The toddler began. “I have to deliver this. Before lunchtime.” The child punctuated holding up a brown paper bag.

  “Where’s your parents.” Mojisola was the first to ask.

  “Dad had to do something at work but he forgetted Sammy’s lunch.”

  “Where do you live?” Mills asked. The child looked back to the entrance of the school, his eyes focused on his nose thinking hard.

  “Up…then side. “ The child pointed toward the entrance then south. “Keep going side… for three.. I think.”

  “Did you walk all the way here?” Mills asked now circling around the desk and getting on the kids eye level.  
The child nodded. “Lunch is very important.”

  “We need to call your dad.”

  “Not yet! I need to give Sammy her lunch or she will die.” The boy panicked.

  Mills was taken aback at the severity of the child’s quest. “Alright, do you know what classroom Sammy is in?”

  The child aptly nodded and pulled out a coloring book page that had figures written in crayon from his jumper pocket. “I don’t know how to say it but this what her thingy said.” Mills gently accepted the paper and began reading it over.

  Absolutely indecipherable.

  He knitted his eyebrows together. “I… see. What is your name again?”

  The child was shocked. “I forgotted to itroduce me!” He apologized. “I’m Clarence Whittle!” Mills smiled. Secretary administrator immediately began searching for students with the last name ‘Whittle.’

  “I’m Principal Mills and that’s Ms. Williams. She knows the place more than anyone,” Mills handed her the paper. “Can you please remind me where this class is?"

  Mojisola read over the paper. “Yes, that’s Third floor room 328 chemistry with Arthur.”

  “Alright,” Mills stood up, “Lets go drop off Sammy’s lunch, Clarence.” Mills held open the office door for the intrepid toddler and looked towards the secretary administrator. “His parents phone number is listed?” She nodded. And he went out the door.

  
  “Wow!” The knee-high Clarence whispered as the walked. “Are those tiny homes?”

  “No, students keep their books in there. It’s called lockers.”

  “Books!”

  “Yes, books.”

  Approaching the stairs the child said with concentration. "That’s too many.”

  Mills and Clarence defeated the mountainous stairs after a couple minutes. “Phew.” Clarence chirped wiping his brow. “I want a apple box.”

  “I’m sure there’s an apple box when you get home.”

  “I’ll get two apple boxes.” Clarence recalculated realizing that he will have to climb back down the stairs.

  Mills smiled softly at Clarence as they continued down the hall.

  “Three twenty six…Three twenty seven… Here.” The principal put his hand on the door handle. He looked down at Clarence and cleared his voice. "Give me second.”

  Mills opened the door and cleared his voice, Arthur was amidst scrawling the difference between alchemical elements and elements used within the scientific medium when Mills opened the door. Slowing down the chalkboard markings he readjusted his stance and looked towards the principal.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion, “ Mills began a bead of sweat traced his neck realizing how ridiculous this is. “But someone needed to make a personal delivery.” Mills explained- as it was customary to hold any items in the office while the student was in class. “He feels it’s important.” Mills punctuated waiting for Arthur’s go-ahead.

  Arthur leaned over in an attempt to see who or what was so important to interrupt the class- he couldn’t. Nonetheless, if it was important enough to ordain a visit from the principal it must be special so he nodded.

  With the permission granted Mill stepped aside and nodded to Clarence “Go ahead.”

  Clarence marched into the classroom, lunch held high above his head. Once he spotted his older sister who sat up straight and asked “Clarence?” the only noise that resounded in the quiet confused classroom. Clarence navigated between the rows of desks to hers. Placing the lunch on her table. Satisfied that his sister won’t meet an untimely end he said,“Bye Sammy!” and walked out waving to the confused but amused chemistry teacher.

  Mills smiled to the chemistry teacher and closed the classroom door.

  “Well, now that you’ve successfully delivered your package, are you ready to go home?”

  “Yes!” The pipsqueak squeaked playing his own self-made game where he hops on a specific colored tile.

  As they encroached upon the stairs Clarence made a small gasped and started running. The principal’s eyebrow quirked and kept pace with the child who was running as fast as they possibly can by having his stride speed up slightly.  
“No.” Was stated as Clarence pressed both his palms on the rail of the stairs, dropping his knees to hop up. "No." was sternly repeated.  
Clarence looked towards the authority of the school. Then still facing the principal his eyes darted toward the rail, then back to Mills.

  “Clarence, you may not be a student but this is for your own safety,” Clarence lifted his hands. “Good n-“

  Clarence slammed his slammed his hand back on the rail and hopped up giggling and allowing gravity to send him down. Mills’ hand mentally slapped against his face, but Mills physically was chasing after the torpedo of a toddler.

  Outrunning the sliding child he stopped in front of where the rails took a sharp turn and, if he wasn’t there Clarence would fall onto the stairs. “Okay.” Catching Clarence by the shoulders and gently putting him down. “Don’t do that again.” Mills stated now catching his breath. “You could get hurt.”

  Clarence nodded. But his smile said he did not regret the decision.

  Mills remembered he did not want children.

  Returning to the office he saw Mojisola mid conversation with whom he can assume is Mr.Whittles.

  A sharp intake of breath. “ I see…”

  Mills felt his spine grow stiff, yet he persevered his walk around the desk towards the phone. “Clarence’s guardian?”  
She nodded. “I’ll Take over.” He didn’t want to take over.

  “One moment sir.” Mojisola said promptly handing the phone over to Mills.

  “Hello, Mr.Whittles?”

  “Ah-yes.”

  “I’m certain Ms. Mojisola has informed you of your sons journey here.”

  “Yes…”

  “And I’m certain you will make proper accommodations to pick up your son?”

  A beat.

  “Well, you see.” _Fuck no_. “I work has become more of a little visit. I was actually calling their babysitter when I received the call. And I really am sor-.”

  “And why can’t your babysitter come and pick up Clarence?”

  “You see,” Mills is beginning to hate those two words. “I’ve just been informed she’s out of town. “

  “I see…”

  The apologetic voice of Clarence’s father did not help. Mills closed his eyes.

_I cannot believe I’m doing this._

  “Listen, I understand. With your permission, I will watch after Clarence since there only two and half hours of school left.”

  “Thank you oh my god. Thank you!” The father breathed. “I’ll make it up to you I swear.”

  “All I need is a promise you will have proper supervision over your child the next time you leave.”

  “Yeah of course, I’m really sorry, I don’t even kn-“

  “It’s fine, you should get back to work .”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He hung up the phone. Mojisola leaned into her hand watching him. He worked so hard to appear tough only to be the world's biggest push over. Amazing.

  “Should I send a T.A .to the cafeteria and pick up snacks?” Clarence walked towards Mojisola and pulled on her pants leg, they began discussing what he wanted for lunch.

  “Yeah. He said he likes apple juice.” Mills looked towards the floor like it was a map of the school. He could place the kid in a art class, but that’s interrupting the students class time and possible cause of distractions.

  He could have Clarence sit in the nurses office. But he is a barely a toddler risk of infection would be on him. The library is another possibility but even the greatest of kids will get jittery and loud on accident.

  “I have a T.V. in my office, I’ll… does the . Dies the A.V. room still have the _schoolhouse rock_ video tapes?”

  “I’ll call them.”

  Somewhere deep past the janitor’s domain. Besides the broiler room where kids play hooky and partake in teenage rebellion. There is a dusty land an archaeology digs sight and modern graveyard of mankind’s forgotten progress. An overhead projector slumbers and a CRT televisions collect dust lie in wait. Something in this Atlantis of modern man stops working on a police scanner, a stake of different radios besides them-waiting for their turn. They place the screwdriver and their soft padded footsteps head toward the ringing breaking the murky silence of the room. They answer the phone.

  Mills walked into the office to find a stack of dust VHS tapes on his desk Fresh fingerprints from where they were held. Mills considered doing the ‘When I was your age’ talk but Clarence didn’t ask what the rectangles were and Mills didn’t want to feel old.  
“You’ll get lunch in a bit.” Mills said lifting the top VHS, Mojisola requested simple concepts and the request was fulfilled, basic grammar, math and history and so on. Mills wiped the tape on his shirt and regretted his decision.  
He opened up a television cabinet and turned on the DVD-VHS player. Despite the school receiving many updates in technology- school funding can only go so far.  
T.V. Turned to AV-1.  
Video tape whirring to action like an ancient god reawakened.  
The screen displayed the blue and white FBI warning.  
Pause.  
Mills grabbed a chair that usually sat in front of his desk so that he can speak with parents or lecture students and so on. and placed it in from of the TV. Stepped back, then pulled it a couple more inches back.

  The belief that going blind or brain melting due to too much T.V. or sitting too close is obviously not true. He pulled it back a couple more inches.

  “I hope this will distract-Clarence?”

  Clarence,tip toes arms outstretched was attempting to pull a snowglobe off a shelf.  
Mills could just hear the glass shatter on the floor. Or worse- he could hear gabble’s thud in the court proceedings of child endangerment. Crossing the office with a type lip he plucked the snowglobe out of the child's reach.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “The uh.” He gestured to the TV with the remote in his hand. “Watch this.” Ushering the toddler to the seat.  
Pressing play the blue and white FBI screen faded away as the evolving history of Gaia was displayed in cheery bright technicolor that felt of another time.

  Mills looked back over his paperwork, and straightened them out, grabbed his pen and returned back to work the cartoon fading into background noise.

  Until it did not.

  In his defense it was a catchy song. And dragons are cool. And carpal tunnel is a real threat, so he needs breaks.

  When the office door opened Mills jumped back to looking like he was working, a T.A. entered with a plate of lunch for Clarence. The kid gave proper thanks and Mills did too.

  He looked at the desk clock, it was around lunch time.

  Picking up his own lunch and pushing the work aside he shifted through the contents. A tentative knock on his door frame, Sammy peered in.  
“I-uh, Principal Mills? I was told Clarence didn’t go home.” She held herself the way most students who try to remain unobtrusive are faced with the mythical authority figure, she looked like she was gonna be in trouble just for standing there.

  Mills nodded.

  “Can…. Can I eat with him?”

  Mills nodded.

  “Hey, Clarence.” Samantha said circling over to her brother.

  Clarence was chewing on apple slices slowly. Eyes glued to the television.

  “Cici? Can you tell me ho-“ The toddler pointed to the T.V. and lifted a finger to his lips. “How did he get here?” Samantha asked Mills in what would be a whisper if her anxiety didn’t take over her voice control.

  Mill’s shrugged. He’d like to know as well.

  Samantha made a defeated smile and turned back to Clarence and looked back to the T.V. “I know this…” Samantha said sitting down on the floor and shrugging off her backpack. She then pulled out contents of her lunch and began the mid-day meal ritual.  
Mills resumed his meal. All three of them growing more entranced with the edu-tainment musical animation.  
When the video ended Mills replaced it with another VHS silently. “Shii-shoot. Class. Is dad gonna pick up Clarence soon?” Sammy said putting her backpack back on.

  “I hope.” Mills said exasperation edging his voice. “If Mr.Whittles does pick up Clarence, I will send you a notice, otherwise return to the office.”

  Samantha nodded and walked back out the office, minutes passed and the bell noting the end of lunch chimed in the distance. Mills discarded the aftermath of his lunch in a waste bin.

  And attempted to return to his work.

  Information about this falls play.

 

 

 

 

> _-favorite cars_

  This particular play has been put in production in several districts before with no complaints so-

 

 

 

 

> _Conjunction Junction, what's their function?_

  It should be cause of debate _“and”, “but”, and “or”_ –goddamnit.

  Mills relinquished his attempt of focus and watched the rest of _Schoolhouse Rock_ with Clarence.

  Nearing the end of the school day Mills received a call from Mr. Whittles in his office.

  He was being held up, he said.

  Mills was tired.

  Mills allowed an audible sigh and said something along the lines of seeing what he can do.

  Hanging up the final bell rang and in minutes Samantha had walked into the Office.

  “So,” Mills said with a straight-line mouth, “How do you get home, usually.”

  “I walk..”

  Mills did not like the Idea of a toddler walking a long time especially since…Oh shit.

  Clarence had fallen asleep amidst watching the animations, Mills could have turned it off and focused on work at any time. _Oops._  
His knee bounced under his desk as his chin dug into the back of his hand.

  “I guess you live here until your dad comes…” Already getting up and starting to pack up for the day. “Do you know your address.” Samantha nodded. Mills was tired of this. But he said he would figure something out. He wiped his forehead.

  With a certain amount of defeat (around three percent) he told Sammy to wake up her brother.  
After informing Mojisola and wrapping up a couple minor things the trio was out the door and in the parking lot. Unlocking his car he realized something.  
  No booster seat.  
  “How far away is your house?”  
  “Down in Bassett street.”

  Mills didn’t like the thought of returning back to the office asking for a booster seat. A part of this was how much of a terrible idea it was already.

  Maybe some of the books can act as a booster seat… No bad idea.

  “Clarence will sit in my lap.”

  “What?”

  “I do this all the time whe-. Uh. We lose the booster seat?”  
_Yeah, okay._

  He opened the back door for the student and her brother and closed it when they were situated.

  “Do you have your address on maps or..”

  “Yeah she’s loading.”

  And they were on their way.  
Despite the drive being extremely tame and the town overall trusting each other Mills’ knee jittered as he listened to the automated voice of the GPS.  
Then, very softly.  
Clarence, freshly out of his sleepy daze.  
Started singing. _“Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, get your adverbs here._  
_Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, got some adbirds here.”_

  Mills will not partake in this tomfoolery.

  A second voice joined, encouraging Clarence. “ _Lolly Lolly Lolly, get your adverbs here._  
_Got a lot of lolly, jolly adverbs here._  
_Anything you need and we can make it absolutely clear…_ ”  
  At least she corrects adbird to adverb…..  
“ _\-- An adverb is a word_  
_That modifies a verb._ ”

  Now they’re getting it. His fist tightened on the wheel.  
He wouldn’t join in. He’s a scary principal.  
He has an image.  
But, correcting…well he could correct it is learning after all.  
And they have to sing it on beat. And there needs to be someone doing the speaking parts. The speaking parts are important.

“ _\--_ When you use an adverb.”  
“ _Come and get it_!”  
“ _Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, get your adverbs here._  
_Quickly, quickly, quickly, get those adverbs_ –”  
  He did the speaking parts. There.

  His hand drumming on the rim of the wheel.

  “If it's an adverb, we have it at Lolly's! Bring along your old adjectives, too - like slow, soft, and sure. We'll fit 'em out with our L-Y attachment and make perfectly good adverbs out of them!” Mills followed up his line with “-- C’mon kids big finish now”

  “Get your adverbs here!”

  “ _Lots of good tricks at Lolly's so come on down_.”

  “ _Lolly, Lolly, Lolly_!”

  “Adverbs deal with manner, place, time,-“  
  
  
  Pulling up to their driveway right at Mills’ finishing “Indubitably!” which caused bother Mills and Samantha to do quick drumming signaling the song is done.

  Mills chuckled at the children through the rearview mirror.

  “Okay, this is your home?”

  “Yes, Mr.Mills." Samantha said already unbuckling her seatbelt.

  “Stay safe, kids. Oh.” Mills paused. “Listen. I have an image to uphold.”

  Samantha laughed at that. “Sure, Mr. Mills.”

  Seeing the kids enter their home safely Mills drove to his home and ate left overs from a potluck function (a sort of casserole) and watched a soap opera and some news. When Mills went to bed (out of habit he sleeps on the right despite having the ability to take up more room) he hummed the song _Conjunction Junction_.  
Damn… That’s gonna be stuck in his head for a while.

  And it was when he returned to the office the next day to find a blackberry pie (bought from a bakery, not homemade) with a thank you/apology note from Mr. Whittle.

  And he accidentally whisper-sang the lyrics when he zoned out during a heated PTA meeting.

  And he sung a part when in line at the local supermarket.

  And he played it in the background during work.

  And he was definitely singing it when he bumped into the stranger who bought his books.

  And he forgot what he was going to say.

 

  But right now, as he climbs into bed. He can’t help but think, despite everything.  
Today has been a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last two chapters were uploaded late into the night, I apologize for the grammar. I don't think anyone but my friends read it but give me a couple. Ill fix it. Some day.


	5. No pain, No gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhivago has an long work day, but in the end everything is okay!  
> Sweat meter: 5/20  
> TW: Graphic depictions of Violence! The Break is there because it goes wild following it! I'll make a less graphic variation tomorrow when I wake up.

_Today has been a good day!_

  Zhivago thought as he looked around the living room. Certainly, the cleanup crew will take longer than they’d like, but he couldn’t predict the tiefling to use improvised weapons.

  His clothes were stained. He looked over at the mangled corpse of what was once a target. He was lying on his back blood falling out of mouth like a gentle geyser. His ribs were concave.  
The improvised weapon did not work in the tieflings favor.

  Zhivago patted his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. And remembered that he forgot them while leaving this morning.

 

  Zhivago hates a lot of textures, or perhaps he hates the sound he makes when the fabrics are scratched or rubbed. Which is strange since he sleeps on various couches and never his nicely made bed.

  In Dead Man's Pass, a property he’s visited more often than other safe houses or even his new ‘Kuro room’ Zhivago slept face down in the couch. An animated gremlin creature (colloquially known as OMG) curled up on his back, Zhivago has learned to deal with the infestation of these animated monsters as a co-habitation. They were pests, and he did not care about them. At all.  
But he had trained and fed them, and even taught the eldest of the pack to speak. Sometimes he did even give them toys and treats. And helped with their crossword puzzles. But he did not. Care about the animated.

  The old ornate phone by the couch trilled out and first the nub of his right shoulder reached forward, then his left hand lurched his whole body shifted towards the table disturbing the sleeping OMG making it sniff at him and blink.

  “Yeah?” the mess of curls growled.

  “Come down-”

 "I'm not in the mood for paperwork.” Zhivago replied locking the phone to his neck and his hand gently ushered the omg off his back. His hand received two licks.

  “We got more than paperwork.” chided the line.

  Zhivago slowly pushed the OMG to the back of the couch so he could squeeze out.

  “What kind of more?”

  The OMG blinked at him stretched and yawned and climbed off his back.

  “We found someone sneaking around. Not sure what they wanted to do but-”

  Zhivago smiled.

  “We think you can get them to tell us.”

  “Yeah I'll be down. Need me to pick up anything.”

  “The usual if you’re hitting there.”

  “Sure.”

  Zhivago strolled in the den carrying holder of caffeinated beverages and box of donuts. He put the doughnuts in the break room (refurnished after Cordell used a leg of a table to stake a man to death). And brought the drinks (and himself a smaller pastry) in the Don's office.  
Handing off two of the drinks to the leader of the suit and her advisor, the right hand pulled his drink from the case and threw away the cardboard holder.  
  “Eager?” Ambrosia asked.

  “Oh I wouldn’t say eager, but jovial-maybe.” he said in a lilting voice the coffee swung in hand matching his sing song tone.

  “Being that happy is a bit sadistic.”

  “Oh, I just think it’s the best way to start the day.” Zhivago hummed tipping back his coffee.

  Zhivago slammed his palm down on the metal table eyes flashing gold.  
His bared fangs caused the cuffed dwarf to flinch.  
On the table were multiple instruments. And not the kind an orchestra would be seen with.

  “So, you wanted to start something with the Kuros?”

  Dwarf couldn't find the words to say anything, so they stutter.

  Zhivago glared disgusted.

  And he then pretends to cool down.

  “Listen,” He smiled, his voice still gravely. "What's your name?"  
  "A-arnold."  
  "Arnold! You can get out of here scott free. We just want know why you were-”

  Cordell and Ambrosia watch from a tv in one room over.

  “A one man act of good cop bad cop. He's a good actor.”

  Cordell nodded to Ambrosia. That comment was on the money. Zhivago was an interesting man. When he gets in the mindset of a character or being theatrical he is smooth and energetic, he could work with anything he’s given.  
The dwarf briefly freezes then repeats Zhivago’s question before answering. Zhivago plays along with what they said, but he already knew they lied.

  He can scare anyone he wanted to. When he felt comfortable, he can be very aware of details-when he’s panicked too anytime he needs to act or react. But, in that middle area of super comfortable and quick reaction survival.  
The middle area being day-to-day life. The mundane.  
Zhivago is a horrendous flop.

  “Wait,” Ambrosia broke Cordell’s observation on her right hand “did he apply makeup so he could show up on camera?”  
_…. Holy shit_

  Cordell watched Zhivago push a cup of coffee towards the dwarf. Arnold had tentatively accepted it. Zhivago doesn’t move. Then as soon as they finish drinking-as their guard is down- bad cop returns.

  It wasn’t even fifteen minutes and they’re spilling the information necessary.

  Ambrosia presses a button and a light shines on in the faux interrogation room. Zhivago bows towards the camera.

  This man who managed to intimidate someone without even touching them or any physical damage. Is the same man who walked away and went home mid conversation with an underling because he got tongue tied.

  Zhivago was far more observant than he thought he was. There was a reason Cordell tended to assign him on stakeouts. And it was what made him a great sniper. In another life she could see him being a candid photographer. He would catch moments or details of people habits ...small twitches...

  The problem was of course when he felt awkward or clunky the habits and details of people would overbare him or he could only focus on one, he may start emulating it or not think. He needed to work through that.

  He needed to learn that he couldn't live his life completely in control or fighting to regain that control.

  There would be moments where he would have to take part in society. And that's why Zhivago somehow was usually picked to order food or pick up books. Pushing him to wait in lines or be in a society that isn't always illegal. Lackey work, as he called it, was her way of making him learn to grow outside his comfort zone.

  Zhivago entered the room hand thrown up in a way that asked the two.

  “Well?”

  Cordell clapped and Ambrosia’s voice tittered a “Bravo.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Zhivago swooped down in a bow, he was panting beads of sweat decorated his forehead he put effort in his act, obviously. “Please. Continue clapping because I can't clap for myself.”

  Ambrosia and Cordell offered one more round of applause and then they went back to business.

  The dwarf-Arnold was acting alone that much was clear, but for them to be so assure that they could pick a fight with the Kuro’s and even attempt to rob a branch, well that made Cordell tense about the family’s public image.

  “Rough them up then,” Zhivago smiled. “wounds are worth a thousand words, threats are only four or five.”

  Ambrosia tilted her head. “If they really acted alone then Zhivago’s performance is scarring enough. Also are you wearing makeup?” Ambrosia stepped towards the vampire.

  “N-no-well, some.” He enunciated evading Ambrosia’s hands. “Enough.” She grinned at him.

  “The dwarf will bargain for their life, but we still give them something to heal from.” Cordell came to a conclusion as the two bickered.

  “Why Cordell, I'll be hap-“

  “No. Ambrosia, your turn.”

  “No time for makeup?”

  “Why her?”

  “You can be a bit overkill.” _Literally_

  “Well, if they die then we don’t have to worry about trouble, so that’s ok-“

 “No.”

  Zhivago clicked his tongue and slid his hand in his pocket. And turned towards the television.

  “Hey, Hey!” the assassin choked out. “She’s wearing makeup too!”

  “That’s…just her usual eyeshadow, lipstick…not a full face reconstruction.”

  If he had two arms they’d be crossed, before being thrown up. “I guess.”

  The countess closed in on the dwarf, knife in hand held casually as she bargained with them."I promise I wa-won't tell anyone...no cops. or or anyone I swear!" Her laughter echoed through the speakers. “S-so I can go.”

  “Sure sure…” The right sleeve closed in on the left sleeves floating knife. “But, you must understand that this…. is a business. So we need to have evidence that the deal was struck.” The dwarf audibly swallowed.

  Thank god for sound proof rooms.

  The dwarf now unconscious had a blind placed around their eyes. A grunt lifted their body.

  “All I did was cut along the arm.” Ambrosia huffed. Zhivago shrugged in reply. Sometimes people are like that. The walk to the garage was quiet.

  They watched the form be placed in the back of a white van with tinted windows.

  “Take them outside Central, crossroads to some other city. Make it hard for them return.” Zhivago slapped the doors of the van punctuating his command.

  And like that the van drove off.

  “Any plans tonight?”

  Zhivago watched garage doors close. “Looking at some property in Aekea.”

  “At night?”

  “Wanna find a quiet place, no nightlife.”

  “Ahh.”

* * *

 

  Trallop street.

  
  7:00 P.M.

  
  Zhivago watched a patrol car drive by.

  
  Even if he wasn’t hidden he wouldn’t be stopped.

  
  After all, Zhivago was just looking at some property.

  
  A singular bat found an attic window.

  A singular bat flitted about looking to see anyone was home.

  There wasn’t.

  The refreshing sound of the rubber glove snapping on his wrist (it too a couple tries to learn how to put it one without puncturing it in the process.)

_Good, some time to prepare._

  The house was simple layout, one story brutalist inspired with attic. The target seemed enjoyed having all his curtains down. So did Zhivago. The walls were mostly unpainted except for the light blue bedroom.

  _Pull the cord of the phone line._

  A bedroom and an office, pictures along the walls. He had wind up planes on his desk and dressers.  
Rolled up towels and shove them them along windows. It's not quite sound proof. But does muffle.

  This Thomas bloke needed to restock on his fridge. What if he had guests over. _Yeesh. Oh, hide the knives._

_Re-check the pistol and its silencer._

  _Where’s his movie library. Does he have The Room_? _No, it seems like he doesn’t have taste._

   Two lights shown through the curtains facing the driveway. Zhivago grinned and found a good secluded spot.  
Thomas had messy blue hair and brown eyes. He was on his phone as he entered. “Oh fuck you too, pal.” The target sneered. “Listen all I was asking was if you would make a anchovy pizza without th-“

 “Oh great way to do business! What, did you get a job because even GD was sick of you? I’ll review you on yelp!” He hung up triumphant.

  Zhivago couldn’t think of a good pizza themed one liner. He hoped the target would say something that would be a good dramatic entry pint.

  “Could this day get any worse?” The tiefling bemoaned heading to his desk.

  Perfect.

  “Yes, It can.” Zhivago said behind Thomas, shot taken in the tiefling's shin.

 “Fuck.” The horned figure toppled over in the hallway. Zhivago’s eyes glowed. Taking advantage of Thomas’ falled state Zhivago stamped his foot on the cellphone a satisfying crack.

  Thomas’ heart rate quickened and he forced himself on his feet despite his pain and ran into his bedroom. Shutting the door and locking it.

  Zhivago chuckled. _This was going to be fun._

 Thomas’ eyes surveyed his room before heading to his closet.

  Zhivago weighed breaking down the door with his shoulder or shooting it open with a half lidded smirk. Of course, for the theatrics of it all, he kicked at the door before ramming with his shoulder.

  “Aww, are we playing hide and seek now?” Zhivago asked out in the room. “You know you’re playing against a vampire.”

  He got down on his knees a gently peered under the bed before tossing it aside. “Vampires can smell fear, you know.” It was lie. But he can smell blood and the closet smelled of pooling blood. But anticipation. That’s fun.

  Thomas pulled his bottom jaw back slightly breathing shallow breaths through his mouth.

 Zhivago threw the dresser aside with a loud clatter.

 He circled the room one last time. “If you come out now I’ll make it quick.” That wasn’t a lie. But he wasn’t going to come out.  
Zhivago started heading towards the door to the bedroom. His footsteps breaking the still silence. Then he paused and turned around.

 Eyes on the closet.

 Slowly his footfalls came closer.

 And closer.

 And closer.

 Through the slits of the closet door his glowing eyes met brown ones.

 “Delivery!” He chimed. _Shit that was stupid._

 Throwing open the closet down the pointed side of a hammed embedded into his shoulder. “Shit!” Hands shoved the vampire aside before beelining to the hallways outside the bedroom. Zhivago placed the butt of the gun in his mouth. His neck dripped with sweat as he grabbed the hand of the hammer and pulled the claw of the hammer from under his collarbone, tearing at his skin. “Bastard.” He growled throwing the hammer aside and grabbing the gun again.

 Thomas grabbed at the phone in the kitchen. Only to hear nothing on the other side. He looked around quickly. Where was his knives? He ground at his teeth and grabbed a cast-iron pan. He has to make due.  
He hid behind the counter hearing the slow but confident steps of his assailant.

  Zhivago saw the phones displacement. “Did the pizza place block you?” He crooned. Stepping towards the living room. “Poor you..” He said surveying the living room. Thomas walked slowly. “Maybe the pizza place sent me to you!” Zhivago continued flipping the living room counter table. “You can’t deny-“ Thomas raised the pan above his head. “the this is faster than fifteen minutes or l-“ Zhivago whipped around slamming the butt of the gun against the side of Thomas’ head making the horned man double back with a yowl. The target still tries fighting back throwing his weight into the pan as it hits Zhivago’s face.  
“Hrnn.” Zhivago growled blood pooling out of his mouth and nose. He didn’t bother to wipe it. A quick shot at Thomas’ foot. The tiefling falls back against the sideways coffee table. The teilfing chokes on his own breath.

  “The fuck is this?” Zhivago growls picking up the prone tiefling's frying pan. Thomas' legs press at the floor urging himself to stand up to no avail. 

  “Think you’re in a cartoon?” He lightly threw the pan so that it would spin as he caught it. Full fanged smile. “It maybe called panned pizza but you do know its made differently. Zhivago made a mockery of a wind up pitch as the pan connected to Thomas’s ribcage full force. The sound of corn flakes being crushed underneath a blanket echoed in the living room as the wide eyed tiefling's mouth spewed blood.  
“That was pretty cartoonish, I’ll give you that!” Zhivago’s wrist flared in the air and the the pan slammed against the target's head. The sound wasn’t as satisfying as his horns protected him. ."..Right.” Zhivago nodded before slamming against the chest again.

  And again.

  Blood on the floor.

  And again.

  Blood on his shirt.

  And again.

  This time it was enough momentum to shove the body over. The new corpse’s blood pooling out of his mouth.

  "Woo! What a work out." Zhivago wiped his brow. No reply. "..hm."

  Zhivago knelt over to check the pulse.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Fantastic.

  Standing back up he made the motion of dusting off his hands, but with one hand he just looked like an idiot.

  Still, He felt smug.

  The clean up crew may not be pleased with the mess. But messes is what give them work. So they should be thankful.  
Returning to the attic he grabbed his trench coat. And returned back down stairs. Pistol’s safety back on, re-holster.

  “hn…”

  That shoulders going to feel that for a couple days.

  Sliding on his trench he considered is the pan would be enough blunt force trauma for him to go have a concussion.

  He’ll ask Cordell if he wakes up tomorrow.

  Leaving the house he pulled out a red cap from his pocket and placed it on the flag of the mailbox and turned into bats and disappeared into the night.

* * *

 

  Week later Thomas would be a brief paragraph in an article of how he has been reported missing. And that would be all that was looked into him.

  It was a smaller job, after all.

  When Zhivago sees that article, he’ll finally remember to ask about the concussion.

  Cordell will frown and send him to the gang’s infirmary.

  The infirmary will take interest in his shoulder.

  Zhivago will insist he’s fine.

  Cordell will give him a couple weeks off.

  Zhivago will start to argue then relent.

  The OMGs will be his distraction for a while until he receives a call to pick up books for Cordell.

  “Even on recovery I have to play lackey?”

  “You said you’re fine, afterall..”

  “Fine.”

  The fact was again, Zhivago wasn’t prepared for conversations outside of what he predicted.

  But life wasn’t about predicting everything, of course.

  The **B** was unthreatening in the least, in fact his assailant was singing and education song.

  But that didn’t stop everything about him hit Zhivago like a pan against his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geuss you can say zhivagos outta the frying pan and in the fire (s of love)


	6. Nickelodeon (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally talk to each other  
> sweat meter 20/20

> Penelope threw her head back in laughter. “Well darlin’ that case might’ve been a hoarse ride of course of course but at least that hoarse horse ain’t ridin’ a horse hearse, course!” I had to laugh too. This cowgirl may not have the street smarts but she had smarts of the road. I patted Medley, the horse I befriended. And then as I looked up Penelope trotted Marshal in front of Medley and leaned in and pressed her lips against mine. My eyes widened then I melted.…

  Mills had to admit that this was a very _very_  good series, in fact the mystery of it all had him utterly on edge and how Penelope foiled against Detective Darla was so endearing. Their interactions felt so real to him it was almost like he was reading a letter from long distance friends.

The static plastic radio and fan weakly rotated on as the unnamed cashier leafed through a magazine. But that didn’t break Mills from his trance.

“So uh, you gonna be here tomorrow if he doesn’t show up?”

  Mills shrugged.

“What are you like, gonna say to him?”

  He tensed. He didn't really know. He also did not appreciate being interrupted. Buts assuming the man behind the counter owned the B he didn't want to risk being kicked out.

“Thank you… but I can't accept that much. I guess, I don't know.”

“Cool.” the man behind the cash register replied resuming what he was doing.

   Mills continued reading, after all he was just getting to the most romantic part. Darla was embracing her feelings.

 

* * *

 

  “Mama--”

“Send money and flowers but do you visit? Never! Where did our little boy go-”

  “Mama I’m fine...it’s hard to go all the way out there..”

“You were always a bit of a recluse...I should have socialized you more. Are you eating? Sometimes you forget to eat like your papa-bless that man's heart.”

  “Yes mama...”

“I really miss you.”

  “I miss you too mama. I’ll try to visit.” Great.

“You better I’m so lonely out here.”

  “I thought the others still lived with you.”

“They do but I'm lonely! I want to see my boy.”

  Zhivago rolled his eyes.

  “Ma there's a line behind me now I gotta hang up.”

“Okay call soon, visit sooner.”

  “Yyyes mama.”

  Zhivago hung up slowly.   
Zhivago felt his conscious punch his shoulder. He never expects to live past the week, and here he is making empty promises to his own mother.   
What a disgusting man.   
He briefly wondered how much his family changed. Sure, they have social media he sometimes looked to for updates but…

… vampires don't really show up in photos often.

  Zhivago grimaced to himself knowing his mother will have a few words about the changes he's gone through.

  What excuse would he even say?

  Kicking a stray rock down the alley he trudged to the B. He has missed her cooking. Maybe he should ask for another recipe. Not that he could actually cook like his mom.

  Or cook.

  In general.

   Maybe he could ask Cordell for help? _No… She likes napping not cooking._

  Zhivago’s palm found the Handle to the B.

  Maybe captain elf could cook, Cordell wants them to bond more, and if bonding meant sitting for food then he'd live for friendship.

  Slowly pushing open the door and switching his attention a new giddiness rose as he anticipated a new target.

  Mid entrance something caught Zhivago’s eye.

  The vampire froze.

   The reading man’s lips followed the book, anticipation building.

 

> “Whaddya mean he’s gone?” Her face became more and more red, tears trickling from her face.”Darla! he’s my brother! He survived every war!....” Her voice became more cracked and her sobs won escaping her chest. Penelope crumpled into my arms. “He’s so strong! And you’re telling me he’s gone?” She began muttering to herself denying the contents of the letter.
> 
> “Penelope, baby what are you doing.” She was placing things in a satchel.
> 
> “I’m going, t’ see my brother. He can’t be gone.”  
> “Penelope listen to me it’s dangerous out there!”

  The intensity of the scene grabbed Mills. 

  Zhivago looked to the cashier.

  “Hey welcome.”

  Zhivago regretted every noise. the clack of the door behind him. The bell ringing.

_The stupid cashier._

  He's right there. In Front of him. Zhivago is doing lackey work and He'll see. Also Zhivago may still have a concussion. So, perfect.

_Can concussions make you say stupid things?_

_Oh you're definitely going to say stupid things._

  Zhivago wasn't prepared for this.

  He looked at the counter and mentally did the math of jumping over without being seen by the gray-haired man idly reading right in front of him.

_Shit he's looking up._

  The bell and creak of the door finally registered. And he looked up to see him. Omar, or possibly Omar. Placing his book to the side he considered stepping towards the man but seeing as he was barely in the shops entrance it felt like he'd be blocking the way for nonexistent traffic.

  His lips began parting to speak-

  “I’ll get the usual box.” the man behind the counter waved off and walked to the backroom.

The white-haired man quickly looked towards the cashier and to Mills then to the cashier and nodded.

  Omar took a step.

  “So,” Mills began. “we... spoke a couple or--more than a couple weeks ago.” he pointed towards the alleged mystery section.

“And uh, when I went to buy my books, he uh said you covered for me, but for a lot more than a couple books?”

   Omar nodded walking half way towards Mills and focusing on a magazine rack next to him. His eye flitting towards mills every half beat.

  “I really feel like there was a mistake.”

  Omar exhaled, “nn..” it was the first thing the stranger said leafing through a TIME magazine. “No mistake, thought you would like it.” Zhivago's voice sounded like a vocalist of an obscure metal band trying to speak while kittens sleep. 

  Mills felt warmth climb up his shoulders. He wasn't new to the act of kindness from strangers he really enjoyed it and loved doing it himself. But this was far more.  

  The stranger’s hand was left on a magazine. He was watching him waiting for an answer.

  “I do.”   
  
  Omar opened the magazine.  
  
  "But, uh...”   
  
  He paused again.   
  
  “I can't accept that much.”

  “Hn.”

  “At least from a stranger.” Mills offered his hand.

The stranger stared at it

  “uh-.”

 Zhivago closed the magazine and met the man's palm. 

  His palm was warm. He could smell after shave on him. Most cologne and perfumes like that gave him headaches during prolonged exposure, but this one he didn’t mind. Zhivago worried his hand was too rough he felt self-conscious about his nails-- everything felt like a twister hitting a barn. It felt too soon but predictable. His hand must be uncomfortably cold.   
  
  Shaking, then release Mills introduced himself.  
 “I work as principal over in Barton.”

  “Zhivago. I work in Durem.” Huh.

  “That’s why I've never seen you before.” Omar-or-Zhivago set his hand on a dingy magazine. ”Do you like working with kids.?”

Picking it up he placed it on the counter.

  “I find myself wondering why i took it up.”

  Zhivago chuckled. Mills couldn’t read if the laugh was forced. _He’s uninterested. Isn’t he?_

 Zhivagos lips were a tight line. _Say something interesting, something to go off what he said. Of all times to go blank, of all times laying on your back thinking of imaginary conversations where you’re interesting you choose now to be blank?  
_

“So, what do you do?”  
  
 This Mills guy just asked what do you do. For a job, which would be a good time to say   
 _‘I kill for a living._ ’ And chuckle. Because that is funny.

  But you are very _very_  certain that would not make him swoon or impress him. Like aren’t teachers’ part of the government? Won’t you be put in jail? Also, you think you held onto his hand too long.  
And he had to have noticed, and now your thumb is running across your palm and he's waiting patiently and you're sure he’ll lose interest so you should say something very cool but not scar-  
“I do paperwork.” Great. “For a small family business.” You sound like twenty-year-old hipster.  
Wait shit he smiled. Is that good?

  “So, what type of--”  
  “Alright here’s the box buddy.”  
  “Don’t like being called buddy.” Shit check if Mills caught how snappy that was. Laugh it off. It was a joke. Haha.  
  “Right, Omar.” Zhivago felt the air grow suspicious.  
As the cashier started scanning Cordell’s million books Zhivago flexed is hand and in a fluid motion he leaned against the counter turned towards Mills. “So, about the money I.. put aside.” He swallowed. “For you.”

  “Yeah, uh.” Mills eyes could not meet his. “It’s a lot,” Zhivago remembered that he emptied his wallet. Zhivago also remembered he isn’t very smart. “And I really am thankful for it but it’s really a lot.”

  “I don’t have a need for all that money, anyways. Just need enough to get by.”

 _‘So he’s a minimalist?’_  
  “It’s not that I think you needed it I just mmn.” Zhivago-or-Omar pushed the dingy magazine to the cashier. “Wanted to do something nice and.” He pulled his hand away rubbing his thumb over his nails. “I went overboard, sorry.”   
  
  The beeping of the books barcodes filled the silence.  
 _Beep_

_Beep_

_Beep_  
  
  “I don’t usually do these things. But in that moment, I wanted to do that.” Something the lilt of his voice made it seem like there was more to that sentence. Mills right hand rubbed the back of his neck. And moved (in his opinion, subtly) to his cheek wiping away sweat. The vampire, now aware of his own perspiration mirrored him. Mills didn’t notice.  
  
  Mills realized it’d be another month till he gets a chance to see this man again. Mills realized this is his chance and he had to grab it, but how could he return the favor to him?  
  
  “I’d like to repay you.” Omar started to retaliate but Mills preserved. “A-are you free.”  
  “Right now?” Omar blinked at him.  
  “There’s this cafe, nearby. And we can talk.”  
The whites of Omar’s eyes became more apparent. “I’d-yeah.”

  “Yeah?”  
  “Yeah I-” The cashier who dissolved away from them in that moment them snickered. The world returned and they both felt uncomfortable about him. “...Sure, I want to get to know you.”

  “Me too.”   
And Zhivago sincerely smiled. Or grimaced. To an average person he would be scary. But in this moment, Mills would not be an average person.   
  “That’ll be 300 ”  
  “Right.” Omar patted his pockets and pulled out his wallet. Mills watched him pay in pure.  
  “Cool, see you next month.”  
Zhivago bit back a grunt. Pulling the box towards him and placing the magazine on top.  
  “Are you sure? You want to have uh. Have coffee right now? I mean I am free but I just.”  
  “Nah, why would I want coffee.” The cashier interjected before Mills could reply.  
  “No, I wasn’t talking to you.”  
  “Oh. Cool.”  
  Mills finally spoke. “Do you want me to help you with that, it’s a big box.”  
  “I’m a big guy I can take care of it. Let's talk outside?”  
  Mills nodded “Sure, yeah.”  
  
Leaning against the brick wall of the B Zhivago looked over Cordell’s newest collection. He couldn’t meet Mill’s eyes.   
“I’m sorry. I got too far ahead of myself, you must have felt obligated you don’t have to-”  
“I want to it’s just that when something that I don’t plan for happens it makes me uneasy.”  
Mills exhaled a chuckle.  
“I know how it sounds, but…” Zhivago grit his teeth and inhaled.  
“No I understand.”  
He met his eyes. “You do?”   
“I am mentally prepared to do these certain things for one day and if more things happen or I have to talk to other people I feel like I’m on shaky ground.”   
“Yeah.” Zhivago smiled. “Yeah.”   
“I do want to have coffee with you.” The vampire said after clearing his throat, despite that not making his voice less gravely.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy velentines

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically NOT chapter one. Im fucking around with formatting I'll figure out soon enough. Technically this will be a bit of a living fiction for a while (I.E. even if i have following chapters up this may still be edited) I'll add dated updates in the notes if so


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